


Too late to cry, too broken to move on

by jijal



Category: BTOB
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Dark, Heavy Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 19:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14119539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jijal/pseuds/jijal
Summary: Ilhoon is there, is real, is all Minhyuk could have ever asked for, and yet he isn't.





	Too late to cry, too broken to move on

**Author's Note:**

> after a thousand years, it. has. been. finished. enjoy this gloomy and messy minhoon hitman au, prompted by [this](http://otpprompts.tumblr.com/post/161582114942/imagine-person-a-of-your-otp-in-the-hitman) even though it turned into something completely different in the end; title from a drop in the ocean by ron pope

A drop of blood on the bathroom floor, his curtains drawn and the weapon he used already cleaned in the top drawer of his nightstand, that's Minhyuk. He's good at what he does, killing people for a living, it was something that came easy to him, easier than it should have. And it was something he slipped into, the right person to introduce him to the business back when it was hard just to get by, and the imminent threat of losing the shabby roof above his head and having to crawl back to his family to beg for forgiveness and assure them he’s come back to his senses, as they’d called it. Coming back to his senses and turning his back on every, and any, man he’s ever laid eyes on, like his father told him to after he found out Minhyuk had been lying about seeing the girls his relatives had been attempting to set him up with and had spent his time texting guys he met online instead. Minhyuk refused to keep running, then, held his father’s crushing gaze, albeit his heart beating in his throat and the palms of his hands getting clammy. He thought, maybe, he’d regret it one day, although he knew he shouldn’t, as he told his father to accept it, despite his resentment, see past it even and accept him as the son he has always loved. A disappointed scoff and an icy cold, razor sharp command to pack his stuff was all Minhyuk got.

The first two, three jobs robbed him of sleep and appetite for weeks, consumed every bit of normal life that had helped him stay sane and that he had tried to hold onto until he couldn’t and he was forced to quit his part-time job at the convenience store. His boss had started to suspect a drug problem, when Minhyuk’s weight loss and the increasingly few hours of sleep at night had begun to show, and Minhyuk couldn’t really blame him. It was barely a life he was living, yet he had to acknowledge the fact that, to his horror, it was getting easier as time passed, less doubts and guilt to grapple with, that allowed him to just do his job: killing people and being barely alive himself. Before he knew, he had made a name for himself and clients lined up endlessly. He started making a lot of money, but he’d hate to splurge on insanely expensive furniture or an enormous flat. It’d make him look suspicious, and he doesn’t like staying at his flat, anyway. It’s too big for him, too spacious and quiet, almost lifeless.

At some point, he learned to stop trying to find a good reason and let himself live the new life he hadn’t been looking for, but found, anyway. It wasn’t perfect, and it never would be, but it was good enough, and it was something to perfect, gave him room and a purpose to try harder, push himself further and challenge himself more than any other job he has had ever did. It was unsettlingly refreshing. After ten, eleven jobs, he knew his routine, what to wear to blend in, what to bring to get the job done and how to leave again without a trace. He’s perfected it, perfected it until he thought he would never be able to erase it from his brain, until even the slightest tremble had left his fingers curled around the knife handle.

Minhyuk couldn’t imagine anything _not_ going his way, things not falling into place like they always do for him. That is, until the day everything goes wrong, and he ends up on the door step of the only person he knows he can trust.

"Well. Either you got into a fight or you just had  _really_  rough sex. Either way I’m intrigued.”

Ilhoon eyes Minhyuk up from head to toe. If the police were to come right now they'd have him arrested without a second thought. The split lip, the scratches down his neck and his bloody knuckles giving away way too much, while not being immediately obvious to tired, busy passers-by.

"I need an alibi."

"How about shower first, then alibi, 'cause if anyone else sees you like this..."

"Good point."

Inside Ilhoon’s apartment, Minhyuk strips out of his clothes and goes to take a thorough shower, while Ilhoon lets the blood-stained shirt and trousers soak in the kitchen sink and checks Minhyuk’s shoes for anything that could get him the life sentence he has managed to avoid pretty well so far. Once Minhyuk’s dressed again, in a T-shirt and a cosy pair of sweats he found placed atop the small basin next to the shower and that he recognises as one of Ilhoon’s, his familiar, faint smell clinging to the soft, slightly worn-down fabric, Ilhoon gets him to sit down on the sofa. His even breaths lulling Minhyuk into relaxation and his warm, not overly soft but comforting, hands ghosting over Minhyuk’s skin, he disinfects all of the scratches and wounds, before using up an estimated hundred bandaids, despite Minhyuk’s protests to save them and not waste any money on him. Ilhoon just rolls his eyes and continues to examine the back of his neck, careful not to miss anything.

He sets the coffee table and orders in dinner for the two of them afterwards, and they eat in front of the television, each a bottle of beer next to them. Ilhoon likes to make sure Minhyuk gets to unwind once in a while, his job is stressful enough as it is even though he tries his best not to let that shine through too much, Ilhoon knows, and he also knows Minhyuk needs someone to make him relax, to distract him and bring him back down to earth every now and then, into the real world, where people work as accountants or waiters and where they aren’t out to slit each other’s throats for ridiculous sums of money.

“So, what happened today?” Ilhoon asks from his end of the couch, shooting Minhyuk a skeptical, slightly concerned look over his half-empty box of noodles

“He had security I didn’t know about. Got into a fight with them.” Minhyuk finds Ilhoon’s eyes. “I didn’t kill him.”

Ilhoon nods, slowly. “Okay.” He proceeds to search his food for any chicken he might have missed, but gives up after a few seconds, dropping his chopsticks into the box in resignation. “What did you have in mind?”

Whenever a job is done, Minhyuk is desperate, itching to get rid of not only the evidence and traces on his body and clothes, but all the memories and images etched into his brain; they love keeping him awake for as long as they can, when all he wants is to fall asleep and get some rest, and then successfully seep into his dreams, robbing him of any precious minute of escape. One thing Minhyuk hates more than staying in his flat is sleeping in his bed, so cold and lonely it could never save him from the monsters he used to be scared of as a child, let alone the ones he fears now.

Ilhoon’s bed is _different_ , it’s small and his old, worn-out mattress too soft, but it's terribly easy to fall asleep next to him, even though his short, sleep-induced monologues startle Minhyuk awake in the middle of the night, the walls of his apartments are so thin you can hear neighbours from all directions doing all sorts of things and his air conditioner stopped working three summers ago. The mere fact that Ilhoon is by his side makes Minhyuk’s anxious thoughts and the prospect of his haunting nightmares more bearable.

“I came over for dinner. We watched a movie. And I stayed the night.”

“And your neck?”

“Guess I like it rough after all.”

Minhyuk sometimes thinks about what it would be like to live with Ilhoon, to have someone to come home to everyday, order in pizza on the weekends and sleep in together on more lazy days. Then he remembers that Ilhoon has a life of his own, that Minhyuk is a big part of but only knows so much about, and he would feel incredibly selfish and like a burden more than anything else for even asking, so he doesn’t. Instead, he comes over once a week for a few hours, for Ilhoon to make sure Minhyuk is still alive and for Minhyuk to forget about work for a while. They don’t talk about serious things, they never do, it’s some kind of silent promise, and most of the time the only thing to look forward to, the only thing that gives Minhyuk a feeling of safety whenever his anxiety gets the best of him and starts to drag him down a hole. Ilhoon is the opposite of an anchor, but Minhyuk can’t really figure out what that is.

Ilhoon coughs out a surprised laugh.

"I hope we cuddled afterwards at least,” he mumbles, that challenging, cheeky smile playing on his lips.

Minhyuk never felt the need to explain himself or the choices he’s made that got him where he is now. The only reason he told Ilhoon about his lucrative part-time job was because he had found himself unable to live with that kind of secret, and maybe he did need the reassurance every now and then. Ilhoon listened, nodded and told Minhyuk to always be safe first, which seemed borderline cynical considering he was getting paid to murder people, but Minhyuk promised he would; the last thing he wants is for Ilhoon to lose sleep worrying about him.

He can’t remember what show it was they were watching, anything that wasn’t Ilhoon and the faintly familiar feeling of his lips against Minhyuk’s, his weight on top of him and his hands at the back of his neck as he pulled him impossibly closer nothing but a blur. It was hard to grasp, Ilhoon was real, was there, his fingertips sinking into Minhyuk’s hot skin, the little, uncontrolled noises escaping his throat real, there, and grounding in a way it was overwhelming, it was home, and safety and a kind of completeness Minhyuk hadn’t realised he was craving. Ilhoon was the anchor he needed.

At breakfast, sitting down at the little table in the kitchen, opposite an only slowly waking up Ilhoon and a cup of coffee between them, Minhyuk can’t remember the last time sleep had won over him as fast as it did next to Ilhoon.

“Coffee’s for you.” Ilhoon gives the cup a nudge in Minhyuk’s direction, as if he has to be reminded that Ilhoon hates black coffee with a passion, gaze fixed on the phone in his hand. Minhyuk looks down at the cup for a second, and then he looks at Ilhoon, and the memories come flooding in, like a wave breaking, taking his breath away. The light snicker when he failed to pull Ilhoon’s T-shirt over his head, the feeling of Ilhoon’s chest under his lips, once they had finally won over their annoying, way too resistant clothes, rising and falling without rhythm as Minhyuk let his mouth travel further down. Ilhoon’s impatient hands made clear what he wanted with a soft, determined tug on a few strands of Minhyuk’s hair, guiding him in the right direction without hesitation.

“Last night. I should’ve asked before I… you know,” Minhyuk falters. “I’m sorry.”

It’s not what he wants to say, not even close, but if anything, it’s _easy—_ easier than putting any of his actual thoughts into words; Ilhoon had left him tongue-tied from the moment he pulled back for the last time, had left Minhyuk unable to do anything but watch him collect his clothes from the floor and disappear into the bathroom to take a quick shower, fractions, pieces of fresh, vivid memories, feelings blending together, whirling around inside of Minhyuk’s head, his heart, that wouldn’t stop beating in his ears, making it impossible to slip back into the warmth and lightness and easiness that was Ilhoon, or the memory of their bodies so ridiculously close letting go had seemed impossible. Minhyuk is scared it could all fade and become something he isn’t quite sure ever happened, if he doesn’t talk about it, to keep it fresh, and real and there.

“If I hadn’t been okay with it, I wouldn’t have let you.”

Minhyuk spots the bruise, right above Ilhoon’s collarbone that he left, that earned him an exasperated whine, because _we aren’t possessive teenagers, hyung_ , and _it’ll be a pain in the ass to cover up_ , but it’s proof last night was real, it’s something that stays, albeit only for a few days, a week if Minhyuk’s lucky.

Ilhoon lifts his head at the lack of response, the sudden movement pulling Minhyuk out of his thoughts.

“Hyung. Don’t rack your brain over this. You were kinda out of it, and I clearly didn’t see a reason to stop you. That’s all it was.”

Like thick, rough rope wrapped around Minhyuk’s limbs, and a hundred bricks attached to them, Ilhoon’s controlled, sober words are heavy and Minhyuk gets pulled under water. His chest hurts, breathing hurts, holding Ilhoon’s gaze hurts, sitting at the little table in the kitchen, opposite a now fully awake Ilhoon and a cup of coffee ignored between them. Minhyuk realises he has no strength left in his body to try and make it back to the surface, and everything hurts.

He manages a nod, and his lungs give out.

“The coffee’s for you.”

Ilhoon is the heaviest anchor of them all.


End file.
